We Will Become Silhouettes
by Radioheaded
Summary: House discovers that reality is not what it seems. Very AU.


The snow comes down in big, wet flakes, coating the world. Insulating it. The pure whiteness brushes away the grit of the city; in a glance, maybe out of the corner of an eye, beauty can be found in the sterile environment of concrete and skyscrapers. House thinks about this as he looks out the window, looking at the powder as it falls from nothingness. His reflection catches him and for a moment he's looking into his eyes, meeting his own intense gaze. But then he's staring beyond his doppelganger, looking through the twin that floats on the other side of the glass. His hand moves up to the window and it's cool under his skin; the pale imitation's hand presses back and it's the roof of a house, long and slanted.

The lights of his office come on and Wilson's behind him, approaching him, touching his shoulder. The fingers that grasp through his shirt are short but slender, with a long palm. It's an odd combination for a man and House thinks of this as he's pulled from his daydreams. Wilson's speaking to him, saying he's going home and is he coming too? House shakes his head no. He's not ready to leave yet. He turns to Wilson, tells him to go. It's late. Then there's a kiss and it's light and sweet and chaste, a side of Wilson House is still getting used to. He holds himself back better now, doesn't try to wound as deeply. The air is cold when Wilson pulls away so he grasps his shoulders, pulls him back and kisses him until they're both out of breath. Wilson leaves but he's still in House's mouth, tasting like the faint remnants of soda and tic tacs. He'll move through House, into his cells, then pass through as if he were never there.

His gaze returns to the cold comfort of the oncoming storm when the lights go out. When did the darkness get here? He used to ask that when he was young, so young. Light and darkness where just very punctual personas that interfered with his activities. But now he knows that darkness is always here; it just stays out of sight half the time. His forehead is pressed against the glass now; his breath fogs it, distorts his vision of the white world around him. He used to love winter. The exhilaration of that first snow; dumping Stacy into a snow bank and keeping her there until it was a puddle around them. But now the cold curls inside him, hooks into his flesh and turns it blue, clouds his mind until he shakes, craving warmth. He showers more in the winter, turning the hot water up until he can't stand it, until he's bright red. He likes walking out of the bathroom naked into the cool air of the apartment, watching as steam coils off him, curls up and away into oblivion. Wilson, if he's up, will press into him, getting his own clothes wet but enjoying the sensation of heat. They'll press together like that until homeostasis hits, makes House take a Vicodin. Then they'll go to bed, touching just enough so that heat can flow back and forth between them through the night.

But for now House leans against a window, looking out at something he can't enjoy anymore. The snow is coming down in thick sheets that dance through the air in a perfect rhythm, in movements filled with preternatural grace. He remembers when he had grace. When his movements were long, assured. He's trapped in a body that's shriveled before its prime; it took a part of him with it that he doesn't know how to replace. And why this is occurring to him now, on a night no more special than the last, he doesn't know. But he's a captive audience to the questions that pull his attention in a multitude of directions; alarm bells are ringing in his head and there's something wrong but he can't place his concerns. They're vague, vaporous and when he chases after them they disappear, leaving him to wonder just what it was that concerned him so deeply. He steps back from the window, averts his eyes and tries to think. Something's wrong. He feels it, inside in a place that's basic, instinctual. It grips him, makes him feel like he's drowning in the air. He feels like he needs to go to his desk, needs to sit. Needs to think. But then he approaches the desk and understands. Somehow he's in two places at once; he stands in front of his desk but also sits at it. But his other form is slumped; his head is down and an arm is strewn across the wood carelessly. House makes a move; his movements are steady, curious. _Too much Vicodin_. He's never hallucinated before, but, hey, there's a first time for everything. His fingers reach his wrist and there's no movement underneath; no pulse to spread blood, warmth through his body.

He moves away from the static version of himself, back to the window. He's dreaming. Or hallucinating. Either way, it's not real. Can't be. So why is he sweating? Why is there a sudden pain in his chest? Why are his fingers going numb, scrabbling at the window as he slides down its length, curling into a ball on the floor? He looks up into the glass and suddenly Wilson is there; but it's not Wilson. It looks like him, even smells like him but the imposter that approaches is emanating light; the look in its eyes is too serene, too clear. Too focused.

"Hey," it says, speaking softly.

"You're not real," House gasps; the pain reduces his words to harsh barks punctuated by muffled groans of pain.

"Come on, House. What's not real?"

What's not real? What's not there? Who's not there? What hasn't happened?

"All of it?"

"All of it." House is pretty sure it really is Wilson, now, and when his friend touches his chest, he relaxes. The pain lessens. He looks up into kind eyes that he sees for the first time and sees something he never believed in. They're large, larger than he would have expected. They're not snow white, more like a cream color, but they're comforting all the same, and then they're moving, wrapping around Wilson and himself and Wilson is speaking again, whispering that his heart has stopped, only moments after he told the nurse it would. He has two choices; one he's already seen, the other he's getting a glimpse of now.

Wilson smiles at House's answer, leans into the man and their lips press together again, but now it's more whole, more complete than ever; it's pure feeling and it fills House, pulls him away from the pain until he can stand again, whole. When he can bear breaking the kiss, bear the parting, he looks into those brown eyes, the eyes that have been there the whole time.

"I think I have some birdseed in my apartment, Wilson."

Wilson tells him to shut up, but he's laughing. And House smiles, and it's real and pure and he knows he's made the right choice.


End file.
